


The Boy from the Black Sea

by bluetears07



Series: Salt and Ash [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hair Braiding, Homesickness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:18:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Galahad is homesick during his first night at the wall. Tristan comforts him, in his own abrasive, pragmatic way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy from the Black Sea

**Author's Note:**

> For kayroos! I hope you like this and that it make your heart feel warm and happy (though I worry it may be a tad melancholy at points). Playing fast and loose with history.

A quiet, hiccupping sob drags Tristan back from the brink of sleep. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rise to attention, heart pumping as adrenaline surges through his veins in preparation for a fight. His eyes quickly adjust to the darkness, scanning the small room for the source. The muffled sniffling continues, his blood cooling as he recognizes the mournful sound. Bor’s snores nearly drown out the soft noise but Tristan’s keen ears pick out the whimpering amongst the low rumble. On the lower bunk across the room, he spots a trembling shoulder. It twitches in time with the poorly concealed whines.

If the others hear, they give no notice to the boy’s suffering. Tristan does not blame them; no one helped to quell their fears when they were fresh to the wall.

He cannot even remember the new boy’s name.

Tristan stares at the quivering figure, slight and gangly in his budding youth. Even if he cannot recall a name the boy’s visage comes quickly to mind; so soft and sweet with a cherub face and messy dark curls. It betrays his age; too young to be here, at the ends of the world. The pained cries pull at his chest, a surprisingly sharp ache lodging itself just below his sternum. It surges with each little noise the boy emits. He tries to ignore it, shutting his eyes and re-labeling it as annoyance, frustration, perhaps, at his disturbed sleep. But already he knows the ache will linger unlike the hot flush of anger.

A louder, broken sob slips out unchecked and Tristan can no longer remain idle.

The impulse to comfort, to alleviate the twinge in his chest, overrides all logic.

Silently, Tristan climbs down from his bunk, stalking over to crouch low beside the other’s bed. The boy lays curled on his side, facing the bare wall with his face pressed tight against the bedding. His quiet shuddering persists, harsh, ragged breathing magnified by his proximity. Tristan clamps a hand over the boy’s open mouth. Wet, wide eyes glint in the sliver of pale moonlight. He holds a finger to his lips and the boy stills, the warm puffs of breath against his palm halting all together. Slowly removing his hand, wrapping him up in his blanket, Tristan sweeps the boy up into his arms. Without a sound, the child goes limp, far too trusting and exhausted to fight the older boy.

Tristan hauls the boy out into the cold night air. It swirls around his bare ankles, setting a chill in his flesh. He plops him down on a workbench outside the long row of barracks. Kneeling before him, Tristan peers up into the boy’s face. The tip of his nose and cheeks are flushed a rosy red. Thin shoulders quake as he draws up his legs to curl further in on himself. Burying his face in his knees, the boy lets out a low, keening wail. The sound rattles around his boney ribcage, reverberating against Tristan’s hand pressed tight along his sides. He clutches the blanket tighter around himself, hiding in the rough woolen folds of fabric.

“Shh, shh,” Tristan gentles him as he would a skittish colt, gingerly stroking a hand down his trembling back. When the boy does not respond, his weeping growing more erratic, he switches tactics. A strong hand cradles the back of the boy’s head as Tristan leans in close. He draws in slow deliberate breaths through his nose, pausing for a count before loudly exhaling, a calming meter for the boy to follow. It takes a moment before the boy catches on and begins to match Tristan’s pace, the hitch in his breathing smoothing out.

When the boy quiets, Tristan moves to sit beside him. A hand shoots out to grab his sleeve, fingers gripping the rough cloth of his tunic. It does not let go, not even when Tristan purposefully angles himself as close to the boy as possible. A solid wall of warmth, an unspoken promise.

“I want to go home,” the boy whimpers, his voice hoarse from crying. The dialect is not Tristan’s own; perhaps he was taken from a westerly tribe, hundreds of miles from the seaside where Tristan was born. Soon enough they will all speak perfect Latin. Until then, he focuses on deciphering each muddled syllable of the unique patois. “Take me home,” he asks, a defiant edge sparking to life. The solemn look on Tristan’s face sends it guttering out again.

The unruly mop of curls presses under Tristan’s chin, tucking his face in to the warm curve of his throat.

“There is no home,” Tristan tries to speak the unfamiliar words, simple phrases for the boy to understand despite his accent twisting them. Fresh tears soak through the neck of his tunic. The cloth clings to his skin, warm and salty.

“No.” A small hand grabs at the front of his tunic, yanking and pulling in equal parts frustration and sorrow.

“We belong to no land,” he continues; the sooner the boy understands the better. The boy keeps murmuring denials to himself under his breath, bumping his head against the hard line of Tristan’s collarbone. He gently pushes the boy away, a finger curled beneath to tilt his face up. “Find a home inside.” Brows drawing together, wide, confused eyes stare up at him. Bright blue, rimmed red and watery with unshed tears.

“Inside…?”

“No place. No person,” Tristan explains, his tone harsher than the boy deserves. “Here,” he presses the palm of his hand tight against the boy’s chest, long fingers splayed out to cover the span of it. “Inside.” A young heart flutters inside.

“Is—” he sniffles, smearing his runny nose along the sleeve of his tunic. “Is that how you…?”

He pulls his hand back. Lips pressed in a firm line, Tristan gives a slight nod. The boy drops his gaze, staring at the tangle of fingers in his lap. He seems utterly perplexed by the ambiguous advice. His eyes go unfocused as he wipes again at his nose and cheeks.

“Why do you miss it?” Tristan tries to draw him out again knowing this boil must be lanced in order to heal properly.

“My sister.”

“Tell me, boy—” Tristan stops short when the boy jumps in to supply his name—emboldened by the fear of anonymity.

“Galahad.”

“Galahad,” Tristan makes a point of repeating the name; his accent softens the vowels in ways that make the boy shift closer. Trust, seeking warmth and companionship from the only boy who has bothered to pay him any mind. “If you could talk to her, what would you say?”

Galahad bows his head, deep in thought. Tristan can see the vast potential of the clever, thoughtful boy beside him.

“I miss her,” his voice dips, barely audible even in the quiet night. He sniffles again, pausing to carefully consider each word. “I’m sorry,” Galahad whispers, “I’m sorry I told mother she was the one who let the cows out of the paddock.”

Tristan huffs a stunned laugh, a grin curling the corner of his lips at the admission. The boy startles at the mirthful sound, glancing up to see the older boy smirking down at him with affection. A flicker of a smile pulls at his tear stained cheeks. It blossoms beautifully. Encouraged by the older boy’s reaction, Galahad licks at the salty tears gathered in the corners of his mouth and continues talking.

“When I couldn’t sleep, she used to let me put plaits in her hair.” Eager eyes linger on the long, lank hair hanging around Tristan’s shoulders. Short fingers play with a couple loose threads at the hem of his tunic.

Tristan considers the implicit request. He knows he should refuse, but the ache in his chest spurs him on, desperate not to dash the hopeful expression on the Galahad’s sweet face.

“Here,” he offers with a sigh, patting his lap for the boy reach his hair more readily.

Clumsy hands and sweaty palms tug and pull at his tangled hair. Tristan bares the snags along his scalp without a flinch. Galahad barely takes time to properly separate out even pieces of hair to begin his braiding. Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan watches the boy’s face shift into one of total absorption, concentrated fully on the task at hand. A good sign for his chances of survival—if only he can learn to apply the same discipline to his training.

Halfway through the second braid the boy’s hands slow their ministrations, his little frame leaning heavily against his chest. His curls brush along the length of his Tristan’s neck, head lolling against his shoulder. Breathing evening out in sleep as he slumps against the larger, warm body.

Tristan holds him for a few minutes, afraid of disturbing his hard-won rest. Gently, he lifts him up, carrying the sleeping boy back inside before placing him back into his bunk. Under the cover of darkness, he tucks the thick blanket high around Galahad’s shoulders with the shade of a smile dancing over his mouth.

In the morning the messy plaits remains, even the half finished one hangs bound with a thin leather strap.

 

It takes months and months, but each week Galahad settles into his new life with more ease. He adapts slowly to the idiosyncrasies of the wall, learning all its ins and outs, a soldier’s routine, the politics, the language and just how long fifteen years of service truly lasts. As his confidence grows, Galahad begins to steadily improve his natural riding and archery skills. He diligently shadows Tristan, mimicking his every movement in hopes of gaining the same mastery over both beast and weapon the older boy possesses so effortlessly.

The two begin a routine of their own, separate from the Roman’s strict training regime.

After supper, when their time is finally their own, they sit together. The other young men chat loudly about their distant homelands, their dreams of glory or the young maidens from a nearby settlement. Quiet as ever; Tristan sits on the periphery, carving thick slices off a succulent red apple, the first of the season, while Galahad perches beside him. They rarely speak, unless Galahad truly needs to unburden himself—though he has started bonding with other boys, like the strapping Gawain, for that purpose.

Carding his fingers through the tangled mess of Tristan’s hair, much more gentle than that first night, the young man starts twisting the strands into neat thin braids. With a playful yank Galahad leans forward, hands full of hair, mouth open in a silent request. Tristan pops a fresh slice of fresh fruit into his mouth. It is always the biggest piece he can manage to fit in one mouthful.

“Mmm,” Galahad hums contentedly, savoring the burst of sweet flavor sluicing over his tongue. A few droplets escape his pink lips. Unthinking, Tristan reaches over to drag a thumb along the swell of his lower lip and chin, careful to wipe the juices from Galahad’s mouth. A light blush spreads up the pale column of his throat. “Thanks,” he sighs, watching Tristan suck the sweet liquid from his thumb. Galahad drops his gaze back to the hair wound between his fingers. Meticulous in his every movement, he continues until his eyes being drooping with exhaustion. He carefully ties off each of the plaits.

“Goodnight, Tristan,” Galahad murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek, along the curve of bone where the marks of manhood will soon be inked, before slipping away to their barracks.

Tristan watches him walk away, fingering the length of the longest braid. Unlike the first few times, the hair is tightly bound, perfectly entwined without a single strand out of place.


End file.
